


drowning in your dizzy noise

by timorous_scribe



Category: Glee
Genre: 3 times and 1 time, Bushwick loft, Couch Sex, F/F, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timorous_scribe/pseuds/timorous_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3x1 - Santana and Rachel, three fail-starts and one take-off. Assumes events up to 4x17 'Guilty Pleasures.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	drowning in your dizzy noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecrackshiplollipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop/gifts).



> For [Liz](http://thecrackshiplollipop.tumblr.com)/[thecrackshiplollipop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop): a gift, on this day many after your birth, but still in celebration of the event. :) I <3 you bunches, m’friend! Enjoy some Pezberry kissing and teasing, then maybe more than teasing. 
> 
>  
> 
> _it went a lil porny, i'm sorry..._

 

— — — **2nd** — — —

 

“....and then he said ‘I think maybe the whole future wife thing was _preventive_ ’ and at first it took me a second and I was just like, I don’t even know what that’s supposed to _mean_!” Rachel is sobbing as she paces back and forth across the loft, Santana near the entrance with a stricken look on her face—the same place she’s been since she walked in from work a few minutes ago. 

“But he’s at some kind of party and I guess he thinks I can’t tell when he’s drunk,”

Santana hasn’t actually spoken since she walked in and said hi, just stopped here next to the door silently removing her scarf and hanging up her jacket while Rachel does this scary Real Housewives act.

“—and I’m _sure_ I heard Puck’s voice, but what I just don’t get is why would he call me _now_ , just to say that?”

Rachel turns and actually looks directly at Santana with the question, pausing in her pacing steps and waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. Santana’s eyes go wide and she blinks rapidly, opening her mouth like she’s going to speak.

She ends up just holding it there kind of stupidly for a moment.

So yeah, Santana had a few shots with the other girls while they closed up the bar. Sue her. And yeah, okay, _maybe_ they smoked out in the alley when they were done, some fruity-smelling pale green shit all rolled up into a blunt that chick Suzie got from her boyfriend. It was in a peach skin, and Santana loves her some peach. It made the subway ride home a lot more entertaining, anyway.

Now, though, looking at Rachel’s reddened cheeks and nose, at her deep brown eyes all watery and wild from her crying, it seems like an awful lot to take in and Santana almost wishes she hadn’t stayed after close. (Almost.)

“Pr—” Santana’s voice is a croak (her mouth is all sticky and dry) and she clears her throat before trying again. “Preventive?

“He meant preemptive.” Rachel sighs and rolls her eyes, setting off in her pacing a wide sort of figure-eight again, crossing in the space between the kitchen table and living room furniture.

“It’s not even about that. It’s just it was so, so _mean_ , and—Finn’s not like that to me, even since we’ve broken up!” She’s gesturing a lot, clutching a pretty gross looking kleenex and fiddling with things while she talks, picking them up and carrying them from one side of the room to the other in her upset. Part of Santana is a little tickled by the thought of Kurt’s face when he sees the state of his kitschy pseudo-chic decor.

“Especially after what happened with Brody. I mean, I didn’t want to get back with him, but I didn’t...” She lets the thought trail off and Santana tries to approach her to intercept one of her loops, but Rachel plows right by unaware, hands over her face and her head tilted back.

“He didn’t have to call me _just_ to tell me he doesn’t want me.” The words are delivered on another sob, and Santana feels a pang of unexpected sympathy. “Like he _needs_ me to feel his rejection explicitly in order to feel confident in it, it’s _cruel_ and I _do_ , and I just—”

Santana’s still a bit confused about exactly what went down between Finn and Rachel in this phone call, but she’s more concerned at this point with getting Rachel to quit with the leaky face. It’s annoying—seriously, Kurt owes her a mani-pedi or some of those wicked bagels from over on 3rd or _something_ for pulling his bestie duty on this one, it was _not_ in the living arrangement—and more importantly, it’s really killing her buzz.

Santana’s not even about trying to rationalize the eloquent musings of a drunk Finn Hudson, she literally could not possibly care less, especially when she’s already having a hard enough time just understanding the soggy whining Rachel is passing for words. She steps closer on auto-pilot, staring at Rachel’s mouth and furrowing her brows as she watches soft looking lips move with Rachel’s continued speaking.

She really does hate it when Rachel cries. It’s unsettling in the same way Bambi’s literal doe-eyes are, and seriously, how does she manage to still look so attractive while being so pathetic? Her eyes are glossy, the chocolate color all heated with her histrionics, and the swollen flush to her lips is just pornographic.

Santana finds herself staring—only noticing Rachel’s slowing words in the vaguest sense—close enough now to see the flashes of pink tongue behind even white teeth. Such a waste, so much turmoil over _Finn_. A mouth like that...

A few seconds later, the heat of Rachel’s body occurs to Santana as an abstract sort of observation. It’s cozy and intimate and somehow pressed against the length of her own, her palms already cupping the girl’s cheeks. They’re warm, too, and she can feel Rachel’s jaw moving under her fingers as their lips brush together with slow pressure.

This isn’t even their first kiss.

It’s that thought that jolts Santana into breaking it. She pulls back dazedly to see Rachel staring back at her with wide eyes and her expression frozen in shock, salty tracks drying down to her chin as her mouth hangs slightly open. Santana can feel Rachel’s racing pulse under her fingertips as they stare at each other.

 _Her lips are shiny._ She snaps her hands away from Rachel’s face like they’re burning as soon as it registers, stepping backwards unsteadily. Turning to put some much needed space between them, Santana bites down on her cheek to jolt some reality into head before she does something stupid, like suck that glistening lip back into her mouth.

What the _fuck_ just happened.

Rachel finally lets her hands fall to her sides and snaps her jaw closed when Santana turns her back, she’s had them held out in suspended surprise since the first contact of their lips. She blinks a few times and clears her throat awkwardly.

“Uhm...”

“Whatever, I was just trying to get you to shut up.” Santana snaps, rolling her eyes with a dismissive flip of her hand and escaping back around the corner from Rachel’s room to the kitchen. “Don’t make a thing out of it.” She throws the comment back once she’s out of sight.

“Of course...” Rachel sounds like she’s not completely paying attention and Santana peeks around the wall to see her standing there with her fingers touching her lips, staring absently towards the floor with her brows knitted together.

“Oh my god, Rachel, there wasn’t even any tongue. Calm down.” Santana reaches to grab the loaf of bread off the shelf, intent on making a peanut butter sandwich she doesn’t even really want just so she doesn’t have to look at Rachel.

She’s not sure what exactly possessed her to go off and _kiss_ Rachel—no more of Suzie’s boyfriend’s weed, _ever_ —but she’s trying to shake it off before something like _takes root_ or whatever and it turns into more than it was, whatever that is.

She’s mostly just hoping _really hard_ that Rachel will let it go.

“Well you can’t just go around kissing people without _saying_ something.”

Of course not.

Santana rolls her eyes and doesn’t respond while she slathers peanut butter on the bread haphazardly, squishing the pieces together with maybe a little more force than necessary. She’s got nothing—no excuse, no reasoning, and definitely no inclination to examine it _any_ further. _God_ , this is sending her sober quick and it’s _so_ _lame_.

“Santana?”

Santana gives an grunt in reply as she caps the container of crunchy Jif and sets it back on the shelf, stepping around the wall and leaning her shoulder against it nonchalantly. She bites off one corner of the sandwich and stares at Rachel with narrowed eyes while she chews, thinking how much peanut butter really isn’t helping the sticky feeling in her mouth. Rachel shifts a little awkwardly under the scrutiny.

“What?”

“I’m just trying to decide how many more times we’re going to go through this—” she gestures vaguely towards Rachel with the sandwich, “whole Finn fairytale thing you’ve got going on here.”

Rachel huffs, letting the confusing business with the kiss be eclipsed for the moment by the commentary on her love life.

“He’s my _first love_ , Santana.”

The lifted eyebrow and uninterrupted chewing she receives say ‘..and?’ even if Santana’s raised hand, palm up, hadn’t already.

“I would think a woman that still can’t see a cat on TV without crying would have more sympathy.”

Santana’s smile drops and she stands upright off the wall, pointing at Rachel with the sandwich. “Hey, that commercial was _sad_. It had nothing to do with Brittany.”

The smirk is oddly unnatural on Rachel’s face—she’s been hanging out with Santana too much, obviously—as she brushes past Santana on her way towards the bathroom.

“Who said anything about Brittany....” She sing-songs, letting the question trail off as she grins and closes the bathroom door, smug in her victory.

“Sarah MacLachlan is a _terrorist_.” Santana grumbles, flopping down on the sofa and propping her feet on the coffee table.

She hears the water starting in the bathroom and congratulates herself on superior diversionary tactics while clicking on the TV. If she can just stop her mouth from attaching itself to Rachel’s again, this will hopefully just be forgotten. It’s the second time it’s happened and the way Santana thinks of it, that’s twice too often.

 

— — —  **1st** — — —

 

Their _actual_ first kiss took place the first Saturday night after Santana moved in, late after they’d finally stumbled home from Santana’s ‘welcome to the city’ outing Brody insisted on, that Santana only came along for thanks to Rachel’s over-the-top begging.

Santana had managed to get alcohol served to her with her fake ID, which led Rachel to accept the drinks Brody bought for her, and a persistent Santana managed to peer-pressure Kurt into a few sneakily-consumed fruity concoctions of his own, leaving him just as giggly and unsteady as Rachel.

But once Rachel and Kurt pushed two tables together to climb up and sing—something they found perfectly reasonable since the actual stage was already occupied—it seemed like a good time to head home before someone got arrested. Brody coaxed Rachel down by whispering something that had her blushing and biting her lip, Kurt followed easily without his duet partner, while Santana took another shot in preparation of going home.

Now they’re here, and as soon as the door slides closed behind them and they all get their coats hung, Santana beelines for the sofa. She toes off her heels, drops into the arm seat of the couch with a grunt, and props her feet on the table. She’s only barely moved in, but she already has her Netflix account hooked up to the TV and a favorite spot on the couch claimed.

Rachel teeters off towards her bed with a drunken giggle, while Brody steadies her from falling over with a hand to her elbow. He’s already pulling the curtain closed when she chirps an almost terrifyingly perky “Night, roomies!” from behind it.

Kurt stands in the middle of the room swaying slightly on his feet. He looks over to Rachel’s closed curtain, turns to see Santana sunk into the sofa, then shakes his head and mutters something unintelligible before shuffling to the bathroom. The pipes start cranking and Santana holds down the volume-up button on the remote.

She’s dozing on and off minutes later when Rachel gracelessly falls over the back of the sofa and attack cuddles her, burrowing her head under Santana’s arm and tucking into her side. Rachel loses all concept of personal space when she’s drunk, but Santana wasn’t expecting to see her back in the ‘common area’ of the loft once the curtain closed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Rach,” Brody says with an apologetic smile, putting his jacket back on before heaving the door open. “I’m so sorry.”

He leaves and as soon as the echo of the door closing fades, Rachel huffs a little. The heat of her breath warms Santana’s skin through the fabric of her t-shirt and Santana sighs at the feeling.

“Wha—Hey. Where’s,” Santana looks down at Rachel snuggled under her arm like she’s trying to figure out what she is. “Where’s he goin’?”

Rachel grins lazily, her eyes closed as she rubs her cheek into the slope of Santana’s breast, her fingers stroking designs over the other girl’s hip under the hem of her top. Santana’s arm tightens around Rachel like she can squeeze out a reply, and she does get a shrug for her efforts.

“Somethin’... with a friend. Or a phone. I—I don’t ’member.” Rachel chuckles a little without opening her eyes. “You’re jus’ so...” Santana raises a brow when the statement trails off.

“So what?”

“Mmm.” Rachel sighs, tightening her arms around Santana and blinking her eyes open to the brightness from the TV.

Santana lets the non-reply ride because, yeah, Berry’s _obviously_ drunk. Those fingers whisper against her side again and a hot sensation twists through her belly, unexpected and disturbing in its intensity. Santana tightens her abs against the feeling and tries to focus back on the show she’s not really watching anymore.

“‘Zis the one where Alex fake dies?” Rachel murmurs into Santana’s shirt a few moments later, receiving a quiet ‘ _mmhm_ ’ in reply.

Santana’s doesn’t even know if it’s that episode or not, and she’s not looking at the TV, anyway. Instead, she’s fascinated with watching her fingers drag through Rachel’s hair, half-expecting the girl to start purring in her lap and not sure if she might start, herself.

It’s just so shiny and soft between her fingers, and if that weren’t enough, all she can smell is _Rachel_. Lavender and vanilla mixed with a little bit of sweat and the scent of outside, plus something else that’s just _her_. It’s intoxicating.

A voice in the back of her mind reminds Santana that she’s _already_ intoxicated, and so is Rachel, but it’s a quiet voice and the contented humming Rachel’s just started is much more interesting. Feeling curious and a little bit impulsive, Santana lightly scrapes her nails against Rachel’s scalp on the next pass through her hair.

Rachel inhales sharply and her head jerks up with a heavy-lidded stare, Santana already in the process of pulling her hand back.

“My b—” Santana doesn’t get to finish the semi-apology before Rachel is lunging into a kiss.

Wet, sloppy, and flavored like alcoholic fruit roll-ups, Rachel’s kiss is pretty much exactly like Rachel drunk—all over the place and very earnest, with no real direction or hesitation. It’s messy but not disgusting and Santana finds herself parting her lips for Rachel, not really sure where her sudden curiosity comes from.

She has the odd thought that this has potential to be much better in different circumstances, but the idea of considering it seriously at _all_ is enough to make her tilt her head back and separate their mouths.

Before she has a chance to question what the fuck, Rachel drops her chin to hide her face and a rush of guilt is washing over Santana. Christ, this won’t be any fun at all if Rachel gets all weird about it.

She wraps her arm around Rachel again—how does she manage to be so _tiny_?—and hums at her softly.

“Hey, look,” she tightens her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “S’no big deal, we’re drunk, doesn’t have to be a thing...” Santana waits for an answer, her brows knitting together in worry when Rachel still doesn’t raise her head. She arches back a bit, pushing Rachel to lean back so she can see the girl’s face.

“Rach?”

Rachel’s chin dips forward, her breathing even and her eyes closed. She’s asleep. Of course she is. Santana shakes her head, shifting back into as comfortable a position as possible with a drunk pygmy passed out half on top of her, and tries to pretend like it doesn’t warm something in her chest.

She plays the whole experience over in her mind a few times—just to remember all the details for later, of course—and reminds herself that Rachel is not only straight, but the obsessive and clingy type that would be stifling to date.

When it occurs to Santana that she just legitimately assessed Rachel for dating potential, she barely restrains herself from pushing the girl off the sofa and decides it’s well past time to go to sleep.

 

— — — **3rd** — — —

 

They’re both on the sofa watching TV—Rachel’s turn to pick, which means they’re halfway through season two of the Gilmore Girls—while Kurt is in his room studying with both curtains pulled.

Rachel’s phone lights up on the coffee table with a text and she grabs it, smiling to herself and tapping out a reply. Santana ignores her, more invested than she’d ever admit in the goings-on of Stars Hollow and its residents.

The _‘bzzt-bzzt’_ starts to get annoying after a moment, though, especially with Rachel’s little girlish giggles after every one. What is this, seventh grade? She looks over pointedly with her best ‘you’re being fucking annoying’ expression, but Rachel is too engrossed in her text conversation to notice.

Yeah, okay, _no._ It’s been a few days since the ‘kiss incident’ and Santana’s been working at maintaining a healthy indifference to Rachel’s presence—just to make sure there’s no tripping and falling into her mouth again—but that doesn’t mean Rachel can do the same. _Duh_.

Santana swipes Rachel’s phone out of her hand, holding it back out of Rachel’s reach above her head.

“What could possibly be more important than Dean’s totally valid Tristan-insecurities you’re making me sit through?” Santana makes like she’s going to read the screen and Rachel lunges for it, landing half-straddling Santana’s lower belly against the arm of the couch.

“San- _tana_!” She yells, hand outstretched and grasping for the phone while her knees grip tighter to Santana’s sides, shuffling up the wriggling body beneath her inch-by-inch. Santana tries not to feel it; she tries not to notice how _warm_ Rachel is through her yoga pants, or how very close her face is to that heat.

When she realizes she can actually _smell_ Rachel and her mouth waters, she rolls her back over the arm of the sofa, scrambling to get away from the suddenly awkward position. They both land on the floor in a slightly stunned heap, narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table. Santana recovers first, jumping to her feet and taking off towards the bathroom.

Giggles and shrieking echo around the loft, along with the soft thudding of socked feet running on the hardwood floor.

“ _Santana_! Come _back_ here with my phone!” Rachel chases, trying to catch Santana before she reaches the bathroom door—it’s the only room with not only a door, but a lock.

She slams into the counter when Santana fakes left but darts to the right with a cackle, circling around the kitchen table before sprinting towards Kurt’s room. He yelps in surprise when she almost tears down his curtain, not slowing as she hops through the room and over his bed.

“Not on the shee—DAMMIT, SANTANA!” She’s already on her way back out before he even finishes yelling her name, Rachel hot on her heels with almost scary determination.

Santana dodges the chair in the living room and then squeals when Rachel hops over the coffee table and spear tackles her in front of the fireplace, grabbing frantically for the phone before they even hit the floor.

“Finn teach you that move?” Santana wheezes the question out, punctuated by giggles as she’s pinned to the floor. “Seems like his idea of _romance_...” Rachel’s sprawled completely on top of her, trying to work her hand into the tight space between the floor and Santana’s body where the phone is hidden.

“Give—give it _here_ , Santana!” She yells, laughing through the words.

Rachel’s hips rock against her ass in their wrestling, and Santana tries not to think of what it probably looks like. There’s fingers pressing into the muscle at Santana’s side, nails dragging down to scrape over her hipbone where her tank has ridden up, and she’s choking at the wave of heat that washes over her.

The light scratch at her hipbone turns into a biting grip, bolting across her nerves into a throb at her center and Santana catches her breath. The move was deliberate and she thinks how easily the stakes just jumped in this game.

Santana bows her back in a quick snap, throwing Rachel off-balance enough that she loosens her grip and rears up to steady herself. It’s just the opportunity Santana needs to flip over, twisting to trap Rachel’s hips between her knees once she’s on her back.

She finds herself staring up at Rachel propped over her, the girl’s cheeks flushed and lips parted as she pants with the exertion. Her eyes are shining an almost mahogany color, her hair is attractively disheveled, and their faces are close enough together that Santana can taste the coffee on Rachel’s breath.

Yeah, maybe this was a mistake.

“Uh—”

The non-word is cut off when Rachel dips down and presses their mouths together, all pillowy softness and smooth warmth sending Santana a bit dizzy. She inhales sharply through her nose, the velvety press of Rachel’s lips shooting sparks into her chest that end up sizzling in her lower belly.

Santana wants this, _fuck_ does she want this, and she can’t help pushing up into the kiss, however bad of an idea it might be. She lets the tip of her tongue touch briefly to Rachel’s upper lip, pulling it fully between her own when Rachel whimpers slightly at the contact. It’s a wash of gasoline and Santana’s whole body is the fire; she presses harder into the kiss and slides her tongue out to meet Rachel’s with a silent groan.

Rachel, for her part, is totally on board with this. She’s already pushing Santana’s tank up to bunch under her breasts, then sliding her hands under the fabric to cup and squeeze the mounds of flesh. Santana nods at the feeling without breaking the kiss, finally getting herself a handful of that ass she’s been wanting to grab for at _least_ a couple months—though if she’s being honest, more like since those booty shorts Rachel wore near the end of freshman year.

Her eyes roll in her head when Rachel actually grinds her hips down at the squeeze, her fingers pinching hard at Santana’s nipples and forcing a strangled sort of noise from her throat.

“If you kill her, I won’t help you hide the body!” Kurt’s voice carries through from behind his bookshelf and might as well be a bucket of cold water for the shocking effect it has.

Rachel jerks back panting and pressed against Santana, her arms braced on either side of Santana’s head while her hips are cradled between the darker girl’s raised knees. It’s all heat where their pelvises are pressed tightly together and she feels a spasm when she watches Santana lick her lips, swollen and darkened from kissing.

“That goes for _both_ hers.” He adds matter-of-factly.

Santana smiles softly up at Rachel, an intimate sort of expression that embeds itself in Rachel’s chest and warms the space.

“Guess you better not kill me.” She whispers and Rachel finally gets her bearing back, scrambling off of the toned body beneath hers and up to her feet. She snatches her phone from the floor and awkwardly tugs on the end of her shirt to straighten it, running a hand through her hair before brushing imaginary dust from her pants.

Santana lets one knee fall to the side, her legs spread and inviting, but makes no move to get up. Instead, she drags her fingertips up and down her own abs while she lazily (and deliberately) trails her gaze up Rachel’s legs and torso, finally reaching her eyes with a lascivious smirk.

Rachel’s eyes darken and her nostrils flare as she stares down at the woman at her feet, indecision on her features and heat pulsing between her legs. She casts a glance over her shoulder towards Kurt’s room, then back to where Santana is now stroking the barely-visible bottom curve of her breast, her nipples standing out through the thin material of her tank top.

A whimper escapes Rachel’s throat and her knees wobble, the decision almost made for her.

“Okay, you guys are starting to really worr—oh.” Kurt stops just as he rounds the bookcase, Rachel turning to look at him like a deer in headlights from where she stands in the middle of the living room.

The chair and coffee table block his view of Santana spread out on the floor and Rachel looks back down at her, unable to look away as Santana pulls her lower lip between her teeth torturously slowly and rolls her spine in a sinuous curve.

It might be tempting the situation—this crazy Freaky Friday situation that has her dry-humping Rachel Berry in their living room—but whatever, Santana doesn’t care. It’s got her wet as fuck and Rachel looking at her like _she’s_ the menu is only getting her hotter.

“We’re fine.” Rachel calls out flatly, not taking her eyes from Santana. Santana grins sexily, stopping the hypnotic motion with a wink because, yeah, she’s got Rachel two seconds from mounting her and she knows it. She rolls over and gets to her feet, unable to contain the cocky smile.

“There’ll be no murder in the loft tonight, Lady Hummel, unbunch your panties.” She bows grandly, arms spread wide and chin dipped to her chest, then laughs when he chucks a sofa pillow at her.

“It’s not _funny_ , Santana, y’know your vaguely violent tendencies can be unsettling to live with sometimes.” He huffs into the kitchen to stare in the fridge, unsure if he even wants anything but needing somewhere to flourish off to in his huff.

“ _She_ tackled _me_!” Santana proclaims incredulously. “How’m _I_ catching shit for what Berry did?”

Rachel is notably quiet as the bickering continues, settling herself back on the couch with her phone clumsily protruding from her pocket. Things have changed between them, even before this, and grown into something she doesn’t recognize by its name. The realization is unnerving and altogether confusing on _so_ many different levels.

She spares a glance back at her roommates arguing in the kitchen, her eyes tracing the line of Santana’s jaw down the arch of her neck, following as it flows into the sensual curves of her body. She catches herself licking her lips when she reaches the roundness that is Santana’s perfect ass, and it occurs to Rachel in that exact moment that she’s in real trouble.

 

— — — — — —

 

It’s been two and a half weeks since they felt each other up while making out like mad on the living room floor, and they still haven’t talked about _any_ of it.

Rachel’s not sure if it was anything more than sport for Santana, flustering her for a lark and just playing at getting under her skin. Santana, on the other hand, refuses to be the stereotypical lesbian hunter putting moves on the straight friend, no matter how _bent_ that straight friend might seem lately.

There’s moments, though. Things that just _are_ now between them, regardless of how much they try to ignore or suppress it. There’s innuendo-laden comments—mostly from Rachel, much to Santana’s (pleasant) surprise—and a few more-than-friendly ‘accidental’ touches, but they seem to be in silent agreement about keeping it under Kurt’s radar, so those things don’t happen when he’s around.

Ironically, though, the lingering looks and suffocating sexual tension are so obvious that Kurt—misreading the shade of awkwardness—actually stays out as much as possible to avoid what he reads as a brewing epic throw-down.

He’s only wrong in the _type_ of release that’s coming, but correcting him would require acknowledging it for what it is, and neither woman is really prepared for that particular reality.

With Kurt out more than ever, Rachel and Santana have had more time alone together than is really wise when trying to _avoid_ jumping someone’s bones—which they both are for some reason that acknowledging would probably clarify, so it remains a mystery—and Rachel’s just relieved it’s Sunday.

Sunday is her and Kurt’s ritual Game of Thrones viewing night, where she can relax because Santana’s prime money-making shifts are on the weekend, which keeps the source of her aching frustration out of the loft. Rachel’s curled herself into the corner of the couch that Santana normally claims, comfy in her oldest threadbare pair of short-shorts and a faded cotton pullover.

Just as the recap from last week is finishing, the heavy door to the loft slides open and Santana bounces in, beaming and crowing about getting the night off. Kurt vigorously shushes her without looking away from the screen and Rachel whispers “Game of Thrones night” in explanation.

“Ahh, nerdgasm circle-jerk, right.” Santana nods, hanging her jacket and kicking off her boots before walking over and wedging herself between Rachel and the arm of the couch. Rachel begrudgingly gives up the spot, scooting over and ignoring Kurt’s death-glare when he has to move a couple inches to the left to make room.

Once settled, Santana gives a lopsided grin and leans in close to Rachel.

“It’s cute how you try to keep my spot...” At the hot rush of breath in her ear, Rachel’s lashes flutter a little bit and her nipples tighten, goosebumps breaking out down her arms. She breathes in a little unsteadily and chooses to ignore both Santana and her own response, staring instead at the bright and snowy scene on TV.

Minutes pass without incident, but Rachel is hyper-aware of the woman beside her. The sofa is small enough that she can feel the heat emanating from Santana’s body, smell the smoky spicy scent that always seems to surround her, and when she licks her lips, she catches Santana’s gaze darting to her mouth and her stomach twists pleasurably at the sight.

With a glance out of the corner of her eye, she quietly slips her hand into Santana’s between them on the couch. Kurt is on her other side, fully engrossed in Jon Snow’s beautiful angst and oblivious to anything going on beside him.

Santana’s heartbeat jumps at the touch, but it’s nothing like the rush she feels when she grazes her fingertip over Rachel’s palm in return and hears a little gasp. She’d be embarrassed by how wet she gets from such a small reaction, but then Rachel’s eyelids are drooping and her lips are parting and Santana is too enthralled to worry about _why_ it feels so good.

She traces her fingertip in designs against Rachel’s palm, then spreads Rachel’s fingers flat against the couch and splays her own across them, stroking with light touches that feel positively electric over Rachel’s nerves.

Rachel makes a snap decision to go for broke, it clicks and she realizes she’s just _tired_ of this uncertain animal their relationship has turned into, despite how titillating it might be. She raises her knee to better block Kurt’s peripheral vision, then takes a deep breath and pulls Santana’s hand into her lap.

They’re both breathing shallowly from the move—eyes glazed and staring unseeing at the action on-screen—while they try to be discreet about furtive glances and shifting closer together. Santana has the fleeting thought that at least there’s a sword battle going on, because she’s pretty sure the choked noise she made should’ve gotten her a look.

She’s fucking throbbing already and all she can think of is finding out whether or not Rachel’s there, too. She angles her wrist to brush her knuckles against Rachel’s thigh, clenching her jaw at the heat she can feel against the back of her hand.

Rachel’s going crazy at the teasing skims over her skin, the lack of direct contact just making her wetter. She wants to grab Santana’s hand and force it against the pulse between her legs, grind her hips up into it and soak Santana’s fingers with the arousal she can feel saturating her shorts.

The thought makes her eyes drift closed, her grip tightening over Santana’s wrist. No more games, no more cat-and-mouse flirt, Rachel wants her _tonight._

Santana would give half her boot collection to know what just crossed through Rachel’s mind, it looked pretty damn good. Feeling bold, she drags her nail up Rachel’s thigh and under the hem of those sinfully short shorts, just barely grazing the length of Rachel’s slit.

Santana has to bite her lip to keep from saying something crass at the wetness that coats her finger, Rachel is all heat and slickness in a delicious mess that’s making her mouth water and her resentment of Kurt’s presence skyrocket. She wants to be inside Rachel, like, _weeks_ ago, tasting her and making her sing while she comes in Santana’s mouth.

She dips her finger between Rachel’s lips, easily finding the swollen knot of her clit and circling it lightly a few times. Rachel gasps at the unexpected touch, her hips jerking upward before she can stop them. Kurt looks at over at her with his brows furrowed deeply in a mixed expression of concern and irritation, eyes tracing her profile.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” He asks sharply. “You’re all sweaty and you’re breathing weird, are you gonna be sick or something?” Santana turns to look at her, too, amusement dancing in her heavy-lidded gaze.

“You _do_ look a little... overheated.” Her voice is low-pitched and throaty, the only indicator of how affected she is, while her fingertip circles again before dipping down to push just inside Rachel.

“Do you need anything, Rach?” Santana asks the question almost conversationally, like she’s not fingering Rachel for the first time, right here on the sofa next to their roommate.

Rachel’s jaw drops open a little like she’s going to respond and Santana chooses that moment to push her finger deeper, a strangled wheeze the only sound Rachel can come up with.

“Whatever.” Kurt sighs, grabbing the remote to turn up the volume while pointedly scooting further into the opposite arm of the couch. “Purell exists for a reason, don’t get me sick.”

Santana smiles wickedly, pressing a second finger in on her next push and trying to control her own breathing. This is fucking _hot_ —the feel of Rachel’s walls clenching and trying to pull her deeper, the slickness coating her hand, the glazed drunken eyes Rachel can’t keep focused—and she won’t pretend like it’s not made hotter by the threat of being caught. Santana finds herself squirming in her seat, trying in vain to relieve some of the aching between her legs.

Rachel lays her hand on Santana’s thigh at the hem of her dress, digging her nails in with each stroke inside her and fighting to keep her hips still. She just wants to press up against Santana’s hand, take her deeper, make her move faster, and her patience for this entire situation is wearing thin and _quick_.

Santana isn’t even pretending to watch the show anymore, instead roving nearly black eyes over Rachel’s face to take in every nuance of the woman’s pleasure. Her forearm is starting to ache from the odd angle, and she keeps catching whiffs of the tantalizing scent between Rachel’s thighs, making her swallow repeatedly when her mouth waters for the taste like she’s rabid.

“ _That’s it_.” Kurt snaps, pausing the show before slamming the remote down on the table and startling them both with the noise. He turns to face them and Santana tries to slip her fingers from Rachel’s shorts as covertly as possible, before Kurt gets a visual he wouldn’t appreciate.

“I am _disgusted_ with you _both!_ ” He hisses, getting up from the couch while they both just stare after him dumbfounded and more than a little stupefied with arousal.

“Wha—Kurt?” Rachel croaks, clearing her throat and rising unsteadily to follow him. He stops next to his curtain, raising a hand to stop her.

“Oh my god, Rachel, don’t. If you want to have sex with Santana Lopez that is definitely your private business,” Kurt’s tone says he is completely baffled that he is even saying those particular words out loud. “But have the decency not to do it next to me! _UGH_.”

His whole body shudders in another wave of disgust before he walks into his room, yanking the curtain behind himself. They can hear him stomping around for a few seconds, neither of them moving, until he falls onto his bed heavily.

“Headphones!” He yells. “Have at it.” His voice is too loud, proving he can’t hear its volume, and they look at each other awkwardly for a few beats.

Rachel stands directly in front of Santana, the proximity occurring to Santana as her eyes level with that raggedy ass fabric Rachel insists on calling shorts, before it sinks in to Rachel a moment later. Neither of them really wants to resume their earlier activities—as much they both _really_ want to resume their earlier activities—if Kurt’s feelings are hurt.

“And you both _so_ owe me for turning a blind eye to this whole train wreck without some explanation.”

Snarky or not, the comment shifts some of the worry from Rachel’s shoulders. He’s irritated—she would be, too, and she’ll definitely be bringing him coffee and bagels with an apology tomorrow—but they’ll be okay, which means right now she can finally have what she’s been desperately craving for weeks: Santana.

As soon as it registers to Rachel that not only can Kurt no longer hear them, but the curtain behind the bookshelf is pulled so he can’t see them either, she climbs up to straddle Santana’s lap and buries her fingers in dark hair.

Santana’s head tilts back to look up at Rachel above her, it’s tripping her out that she’s about to fuck _Rachel Berry_ —fashion victim, mildly psychotic, gigantic pain in the ass Rachel Berry—despite the build-up over the last few weeks. Then she thinks about those impossibly long legs, that mouth just _made_ for the shape of dirty words, _Jesus_ \--that _ass_... and when she remembers that she’s about to _fuck_ Rachel Berry, she lets her reaction stop at just really happy about it.

Rachel slowly slides her body down Santana’s until they’re eye-level, dragging their breasts together and making this little growl noise from the back of her throat. She pops back up on her knees just enough to reach down with one hand and cup Santana’s fingers, then stares into heated dark brown as she drags their hands together up her thigh. Rachel finally lets her eyes drift closed when they reach the throbbing at her center, shuddering a little from the contact.

“Weren’t you doing something?” She presses against the back of Santana’s hand before pulling her own away, bringing it up to grip Santana’s shoulders for balance while she grinds her hips down. “Why don’t you get back to that...”

Santana slips her fingers under the leg of Rachel’s tiny shorts, sucking a breath through her teeth at the hot liquid silk that smothers them immediately. She wants this so fucking badly, feels like if she doesn’t make Rachel come she’ll go insane, and a quiet part of her mind wonders when exactly this got so intense.

“Fuck, Rach... you’re so fucking _wet_.” It’s a guttural sort of growl, Santana can’t be bothered with delicate speech right now when she’s got her fingers slipping in the tangible evidence of how much Rachel wants her and the girl whimpering on top of her.

“Yesssss, just—yeah, there.” Rachel hisses, rocking her hips against Santana’s teasing fingers and trying to tempt them inside her. She looks so fucking sexy like this—nipples straining against her top, her body rolling seductively and her expression almost pained in her pleasure—that Santana has the sudden thought before they even start that she doesn’t want it to be over yet, doesn’t want to let her come.

“What exactly do you want, Rachel?” Her voice is a low hum against Rachel’s throat, her free hand coming up to tug at the neckline of Rachel’s top. She wants her mouth on those perky little tits she’s always getting distracted by, and Rachel takes it a step further by leaning back to impatiently tug the top over her head. She fists her hands at the back of Santana’s head and tugs forward, arching her back to push her breasts out.

Santana takes direction well and she covers a dusky nipple with her mouth while her fingers skirt around, not dipping inside and not touching her clit. She takes Rachel’s nipple between her teeth and holds it there while she speaks.

“Tell me... what you _want_.”

“Nngghhhh.... _Santana_.” Rachel’s fingers tighten almost painfully in Santana’s hair with the groan, her hips rocking urgently against searching fingers. She pulls Santana’s head back by her hair and leans in close, her eyes wild.

“I want _you_ ,” she growls against Santana’s lips, delving in for a carnally wet sort of kiss, their teeth knocking together with the force of it. Rachel coaxes Santana’s tongue to follow hers with teasing little swipes before wrapping her lips around it and sucking. Santana’s eyes roll back—was Rachel always this freaky?—and the sound she makes is obscene, the fingers of her free hand digging into Rachel’s hip reflexively.

Santana’s lost the plot of whatever she was trying to do, something about teasing more response out of Rachel or something, but that seems pretty ridiculous when the woman’s humping her hand and sucking on her tongue, her tits rubbing against Santana’s collarbone. She’s kind of delirious with the feel of it all, it’s overwhelming in wonderful kind of way and she clenches her thighs against the pulsing ache between them.

“I wanna taste you.” Santana doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until Rachel moans in response, nodding frantically and scrambling off her lap to clumsily fall on her back on the couch. One foot is flat on the floor, the other she raises to the back of the sofa, Santana thanking Rachel’s years of ballet for the flexibility that lets her push Rachel’s leg up flush with her chest comfortably.

She scratches her nails down the underside of Rachel’s thigh and leans there on her knees, watching Rachel’s face when she slides two fingers back inside swollen heat. Santana’s hips rock against air at the feeling of being inside Rachel, her teeth biting down on her lip unwittingly.

“C’mere,” Rachel pants, and Santana leans down for a kiss without breaking the rhythm of her plunging fingers. Rachel grips Santana’s sides and gives her a peck, flicking her tongue out to skim over Santana’s upper lip before shaking her head. “Nuh-uh, I mean come _here_.” She tugs at Santana’s hips in explanation and Santana feels herself gush at what Rachel wants.

She rubs her fingertips back and forth over the pillowy spot she’s just found inside while she debates giving her what she asks, then drops a kiss on Rachel’s lips when she stops breathing at the sensation. The next moment, Santana pulls her fingers out and wraps her arms around Rachel, dropping kisses while she waits for Rachel’s eyes to refocus before trying to talk to her.

“Have you ever done that before?” She whispers, guiding Rachel’s legs to wrap around her hips as she ducks down to keep planting kisses up her neck, lightly grinding to keep their rhythm.

Rachel turns to expose more skin for Santana’s mouth, shaking her head just slightly. She’s a bit insecure in her inexperience, and a small part of her is still kind of worried Santana will make fun of her, even with the position they’re currently in. Part of it might be that she’s in nothing but her tiny shorts, while Santana lays between her thighs still dressed in the skintight dress she wore to work. It may not be much in terms of modesty, but it covers enough to make Rachel feel exposed.

She holds her breath when she feels Santana pull back just enough to stare into her eyes, so close that she has to switch her gaze between the two to focus.

“Then I get to go first.” Santana whispers, closing the space between them with a tenderly soft kiss. She brushes her lips against Rachel’s one more time, then swallows the cry that follows when her finger sink completely back inside in one motion.

“And I think you really don’t mind that, anyway,” Santana sets her cheek to Rachel’s, rasping into her ear while she braces her knees so she can press her hips behind every push into the other girl. She wants Rachel coming— _now_ —and she’s going to make it happen.

“I think you like me fucking you like this,” she nips at Rachel’s earlobe and tilts her hips so she can feel her knuckles pressing against herself with every thrust, the pleasure enough to make her rhythm falter for a moment, even through her dress. “I know I do, _god_ , you feel so good...”

Santana doesn’t know what it is, but something about the way Rachel is clinging to her, limbs all wrapped and breathless pleas, is making her want to just _claim_ her, like some weird kinda caveman howl. She had intended to go down on her, the scent of Rachel’s arousal driving her crazy since before this really even got started, but finds herself fully satisfied—for the moment—with what she’s doing now.

“Berry likes it a little _rough_ , huh?” It’s a raw kind of urge, to fuck her like this—all rolling hips and pounding penetration, her palm rubbing friction against Rachel’s clit pressed tight between their bodies—and Santana is unable and unwilling to do anything more than grit her teeth and indulge it.

She’s half-positive she’s actively spraining her wrist with the violence of her thrusts against the twisted angle, but it really doesn’t matter when everything is roaring in her ears; sweat-slick bodies sliding together wetly, the lewd sounds her fingers are making with every push-pull into Rachel, Rachel’s constant squeaked-out little whimpers from the back of her throat. It’s overwhelming and it’s not enough, and all Santana knows is the want thrumming through her veins.

Rachel, for her part, is pretty much delirious. Her body’s bent in half with one leg hooked over Santana’s shoulder, she’s pretty sure she’s getting a raw spot where the back of her neck is rubbing the arm of the couch, but all she _really_ cares about is how very close she is to coming. Santana’s actually _very_ good at this—go figure—and all the fantasizing Rachel has allowed herself recently is just nothing compared to the real thing.

She runs her hands down until she can dip under the edge of the stretchy material of Santana’s dress and drag her nails up Santana’s sweaty back, then digs her fingers into the muscles of Santana’s ass, groaning out loud at the feel of them contracting under her hands.

Her eyes roll back as she grips tighter, the image of how they must look together—Santana bent over her, back rolling and shifting with the motion of her hips, Rachel wrapped around her with her fingers gripping desperately to Santana’s flexing ass—added on top of how it actually _feels_ to have _Santana Lopez_ fucking her stupid, panting and sweating and stretching her neck to lap at Rachel’s nipple, is what ends up just being too much to handle all together.

It’s almost a good thing that Rachel’s pinned the way she is, because she doesn’t have much room to flail when she comes—though not for lack of trying. She settles for biting Santana’s shoulder until the hissed out ‘ _fuck’_ registers and she releases the flesh, scoring little half-moons into Santana’s ass instead while she bucks and tries her damndest to just, like, _absorb_ Santana into her completely.

It’s several minutes before Rachel even realizes what’s going on around her, which is Santana removing her fingers, pulling back to sit back on her knees and let Rachel’s leg fall back to the couch. If Rachel weren’t so completely post-orgasmic drunk, she’d take offense to the entirely smug and self-satisfied look on her face.

“I don’t need to ask, I _know_ it was good for you.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, Santana’s not wrong but she doesn’t have to be an _ass_ about it. She shrugs, then lunges forward to tackle Santana back into ‘her’ corner of the sofa, pinning her against the arm with a glint in her eye.

Rachel reaches up and pulls at Santana’s lower lip with her index finger, pressing a kiss in its wake before sliding down Santana’s body to settle between her legs. She grins naughtily, simultaneously adorable and completely sensual, at the slight jerk of Santana’s hips towards her mouth.

“If you won’t bring it to me, I guess I’ll just have to take it myself.”


End file.
